


When you put up a fight

by evitably



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cockwarming, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Sex, Schmoop, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evitably/pseuds/evitably
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things Sam won't let Dean get away with without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When you put up a fight

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/taelynhawker/profile)[**taelynhawker**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/taelynhawker/) for the beta!  
> 

"Dean," Sam said.

Dean tilted his head toward him, not taking his eyes off of the road. "Hmm?" he deigned to utter.

Sam tapped his right hand against his thigh. He'd been smoothing over the creases of his jeans for hours now; his tailbone ached, so did his back, and Dean just kept telling him that if he stopped whining, they'd hit Cheyenne before dark.

He informed Dean, factually, "You're a jerk."

Dean's mouth quirked upward.

"That wasn't a compliment," Sam added, but saying that only made Dean's smirk widen.

"Whatever you say," Dean answered lightly.

Sam slouched deeper into his seat, not considering until it was too late that putting even more pressure on his tailbone wouldn't be a smart move. He winced and straightened back up, shifting uncomfortably. He didn't bother trying to get Dean to stop again; Dean was in such a mood that he'd twist every word Sam said. Sam wasn't in the mood for a verbal spar -- which would probably end as an argument long before they finished crossing Wyoming. Sam wasn't in the mood for fighting, either.

"You can go to sleep, you know," Dean said.

Sam started, arching his back enough that he heard his spine pop. "Hurts too much," he said shortly, trying to wriggle enough to let out the rest of the kinks. "Fuck," he muttered when he failed, and glared at Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the way he pressed his lips together, considering a stop before suggesting: "Stretch out in the back?"

That ... was an idea. But it irked Sam, who had to ask, "And you'd stop long enough for me to get there?" He snorted at Dean's answering smile. "Thought so. Nah, I'm good here."

"Suit yourself." Dean shrugged.

Sam got back to squirming, already regretting his refusal to move to the back. Even if the backseat was cramped and too small, at least Sam could stretch some and change positions.

"Don't be a wuss," said Dean. "You should be used to this by now."

"To being bored and not moving for hours at a time?"

"That's the good life, Sammy!"

"Fuck you," Sam said. It came out without much of a bite. "And fuck this. Dean, pull over."

"Told you, no stopping until we get to Cheyenne."

"What if I had to take a piss?"

"You don't," Dean said with conviction. "You squirm differently when you do."

Sam grimaced. "I'm going to pretend you never said that. How the hell would you even know that?"

Dean leered at him.

"Just so you know, that makes you a _creepy_ jerk."

"One that doesn't squirm when he needs to go," Dean pointed out.

"Right," Sam said shortly and tried to stretch, to straighten his back, to flex his arms-- the car swerved violently. "What the -- Dean?"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said after he regained control of the car. He sounded breathless and annoyed, and that pleased Sam greatly. "I thought I saw somebody in the rearview mirror and ran them over. Don't _do_ that."

Sam grit his teeth. "Fine." He settled against the door, leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes. He tried to sleep, but he couldn't: he kept trying to get his weight off of his tailbone, kept twisting his back in an attempt to straighten his spine, and kept wishing he could lie down.

And then he smirked. How had he not thought of it earlier? He unbuckled his seatbelt ("What the hell, Sam? Sam? What are you _doing_?!") and spread himself over the front seat, laying his head on top of Dean's thigh. When Dean grunted with disapproval, he hummed appreciatively.

It wasn't all that comfortable, but it was better than earlier. His legs were still mostly in the footwell, but the angle he put his spine in gave him a sudden, almost painful relief. It ended when Dean rapped the knuckles of one hand against Sam's scalp and said, "Get off."

Sam stretched some more, head ending up practically in Dean's lap, the last of the kinks popping satisfyingly. "'s nice here," he muttered. He rubbed his cheek against Dean's upper thigh, nuzzling into it, relishing on the sound of the denim catching on his stubble.

Dean's hand stopped him from stretching too far. "I mean it, Sam. Get off."

"You going to pull over?"

Dean grunted again. "How're we going to explain this one if we _get_ pulled over?"

"Don't, then," said Sam. "Drive sanely, maybe? Besides, it's Wyoming, there's nobody for miles."

"I don't like this," Dean muttered, but he pulled back his hand and relaxed the muscles of his thighs, enough for Sam to lay his head in the slight crack between them. "Don't distract me," he warned.

"As if you're ever worried about getting distracted," Sam said and turned his head so he could see Dean. He was met with the sight of Dean's neck, the underside of his chin, the rise and fall of his torso as he breathed. Sam smiled up at him, wanting to touch, so he did: he raised his hand and placed his fingers against Dean's pulse. The angle was awkward, but Dean's sharp intake of breath was worth it, the way his heart sped up at Sam's touch.

"Sam," he hissed.

Sam pressed his fingers more firmly against Dean's neck. "Is that what you meant by distracting you?" he asked softly, smiling as he felt Dean swallow.

"This isn't funny."

"No," Sam agreed.

"I mean it, Sam."

"Then stop the car."

Dean's thighs bunched beneath Sam. "You wish." Sam didn't need to see Dean's face to know he was grimacing.

Sam removed his hand and settled his head higher in Dean's lap, pressing against his crotch like he belonged there.

"Jesus, Sam!"

"Mmm," Sam said, enjoying the feel of Dean's dick filling up under him. He rubbed his head lightly against the growing bulge. "You know what to do to make me stop."

"Over my. Dead. Body," Dean said through ground teeth, and that was when Sam realized that this had become a competition between the two of them to see who would give in first.

"You're willing to risk a car accident over pulling over?" Sam asked.

"I'm not pulling over," Dean said mulishly. "And I'm not going to crash my baby."

Sam shook his head, well aware how Dean would feel the movement. "Your priorities are messed up."

"Bite me."

"You asking?"

In this new position Sam could see Dean's hands on the steering wheel, fingers tightening and knuckles turning white around it.

"'Cause I could," Sam breathed out. "And we both know you'd like it."

Dean gave a full-body shudder that he had no chance in hell of hiding from Sam considering how close they were, head to dick, shoulders to thigh. But he only said, "That's not even worth a response."

"Wanna bet?"

Dean started saying something, to voice out a protest maybe, but it died out in his throat when Sam started undoing his jeans, unbuttoning them awkwardly, pulling the zipper down, and easing out his dick. One of Dean's hands came back down to rest on Sam's head in a warning, but it didn't push him away. It didn't even hold Sam in place when he wriggled into a position that would allow him to face his brother's cock more comfortably.

"Sam ..."

"Shh," Sam said, placing a gentle kiss to the head before taking it into his mouth. Dean hissed and tightened his hold on Sam's hair: not much, but enough to let Sam know that this -- this, Dean couldn't ignore. It wasn't like Dean could hide his reaction, not with how his cock twitched in, getting harder and filling Sam's mouth, begging for more of Sam's attention.

But Sam refused it. He kept lying in Dean's lap, mouth around Dean's dick, and he didn't move. He breathed Dean in through his nose, disturbing the pubes in front of it, wrapped his tongue around what he could of Dean's cock, fitting it around the vein, and tasting the bitterness and musk.

Dean tried to thrust beneath him, but there wasn't enough room to move between Sam's head and the steering wheel, and besides, Sam's weight was holding him down. Sam smiled around his mouthful, and very, very carefully stayed put.

Dean swore."If you're going to suck me off, just get to the point already."

Sam would've replied, said that the _point_ wasn't to get Dean off, but he wasn't interested in giving Dean any more stimulation; if Dean wanted Sam to get him off, he'd have to earn it. And to earn it, he'd have to stop the fucking car and give Sam fifteen minutes to stretch his limbs.

Below him, Dean shifted. Sam brought his hands forward and held him down. He kept one of his hands on Dean's thighs, the other just above his own head, and put some of his weight on them. He wished he could see more of Dean than just the base of his cock. Dean's face, preferably, frowning with concentration and starting to get red and wet with the heat, but even just his fingers clenching around the wheel, or his toes curling inside his shoes -- just thinking about what Dean looked like when he was aroused made his dick twitch with interest. Sam ignored it. Later.

It wasn't long before Sam's jaw and neck started aching in tandem with the rest of the body. He ignored that as well, shifting as little as he could. He tongued Dean's cock as softly as possible, mouthed it -- gently, gently -- Sam would lose this game if Dean came. There was saliva dribbling from his lips down Dean's cock and into his pubes, and the tiny spasms he couldn't keep his jaw from having kept Dean at least mildly interested, if not hard.

Sam didn't usually stop to appreciate the finer points of having Dean's cock in his mouth. He tended to focus on the sounds Dean made, the hand that often ended on the nape of his neck, the taste of him, sharper the closer he got to coming. But the longer Sam had him in his mouth, the softer Dean got and easier to take in, and the more he tasted just like Sam's spit, until Sam couldn't tell by taste alone where his own mouth ended and Dean's dick started. The only way he could tell that something had changed was by Dean's occasional gasps, short and almost inaudible, held back, as well as the small twitches and jerks of Dean's cock; a game of give and take, push and pull, where Dean kept trying to get more, and Sam kept holding back.

Every once in a while Sam moved, changing the angle of his neck, back, spine; whenever he did that, he'd treat Dean to a touch of teeth against skin, an apologetic suckling at the disturbance. Dean's hand would then drift down to Sam's head and card through his hair until he seemed to remember he didn't approve of Sam's teasing, and put it back on the wheel.

"Sam," Dean said in an affected voice: choked and cracked around the edges, like smoke. "You going to stay that way until Cheyenne?"

Sam hummed his answer, and couldn't help the chuckle when Dean momentarily lost control of the car.

He rested as much as he could, what with what he was doing, and was surprised how calm he found himself. Dean's dick was fairy predictable and handling it didn't take a lot of thought -- sure, Sam had to watch how he handled it, but quickly enough he got that down and changed the way he held Dean's cock according to Dean's movements, and somehow, that was enough for Sam to be able to stop thinking about what was waiting for them in Cheyenne and where they'd come from.

Sam had gotten so lost in the feel of Dean's cock that when Dean's fingers carded through his hair for much longer than he had during the drive, he didn't give it any special thought. When Dean brought down his second hand and placed it on Sam's shoulder, Sam didn't consider it all too closely, either -- he simply turned his shoulder deeper into Dean's palm, encouraging him to be firmer. Dean's hand went up and down across his shoulderblade, rubbing lightly along the bone, and he said: "We're here."

Sam stirred. He hadn't slept, hadn't even dozed off. He'd just lost track of whatever it was he was supposed to keep track of. His back was really starting to hurt now, his ass was numb, his jaw was well on its way to _becoming_ numb, and his face was sticky with his own saliva and itchy where he'd pressed against Dean's pubic hair. He raised himself blearily, putting his weight on his wrists -- one still on Dean's thighs, another under his own stomach, letting Dean's dick fall out of his mouth with a wet _plop_. He smiled at the sight of Dean's slightly wrinkled dick, as if Dean had stayed too long in the bath, and winced when moving his mouth hurt.

Dean was looking at him a little oddly beneath his eyelashes: not unlike the lust Sam was used to seeing, but not that, either. His gaze was softer and unhurried.

Sam cleared his throat and worked his jaw some, moving it left and right and up and down, all too aware that Dean was still staring. It was dark outside the car, something that surprised him. Dean hadn't gone as fast as Sam had thought he would.

"You all right?" Dean asked.

Sam cleared his throat again. "Yeah," he croaked. And then he felt his spit on his face and moved to wipe it away with his sleeve, but Dean caught his hand before it, and held it in both of his, in his lap -- over his jeans, which were still unzipped and unbuttoned, and with his cock still lying awkwardly on top of the fabric.

Dean let go of his hand, suddenly, without warning. He put his hands around Sam's face, and pulled him into a kiss. Short, and sweet, and surprisingly chaste, no more than the tip of his tongue touching Sam's. When they broke apart he took out a bunch of paper napkins from one of his pockets. He gave one to Sam to wipe his face, and used another to dry his crotch before tucking himself in.

"Come on," Dean said, opening the driver's door. "Let's stretch those gigantic legs of yours."

Sam followed him out, almost stumbling when he encountered the sensation of solid asphalt under his feet. Even though his ass was tingling unpleasantly, his legs felt like jello and his spine was creaking worryingly, he found that he didn't mind those even one bit.


End file.
